


In Which Bruce Finds the Kill Switch

by nwhepcat



Series: A Series of Sometimes Contradictory Stories in Which Loki Messes with Tony Stark and IT'S NOT FUNNY, DAMMIT! [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:59:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no kill switch for Tony's fevered brain. Well, there was one, but it's currently missing in action, thanks to Loki. Bruce provides assistance. (Which is not nearly as slashy as it sounds but does assume a relationship between the two.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Bruce Finds the Kill Switch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Westwardflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Westwardflight/gifts).



> Written for Westwardflight's Fandom Stocking, 2013.

Two hours into the Avengers' emergency meeting at Stark tower, Tony interrupts the ongoing fruitless discussion of his current girl-shaped body, compliments of Loki. "You know what is wrong with this scenario? I am far too fucking sober, that's what." Pushing out of his chair, he stalks to the bar and pours himself a stiff drink, tossing about a third of it back in one go. 

"Tony," Bruce says mildly, "you might want to go easy on that."

"Or, conversely, I might not." He takes another defiant gulp. "Because not a one of you has come up with shit. Nobody knows where Loki is, and I'm fucking grounded because my legs are too short and my melons are too big to fit into my fucking suit." Jarvis had warned him, but he'd insisted on trying the suit. As a result he'd fallen on his face, bruising a rib and worse, banging his cooter on the crotch of the suit. The intense pain had made him cry--not that anyone was going to know about that.

Emptying the glass, he starts to splash more into the tumbler but instead tucks the bottle under his arm. "Feel free to keep slamming your heads against the wall. The eighth-floor atrium has some nice exposed brick, if you want something more traditional. Me, I'm going to go test my alcohol tolerance."

He whirls and strides out of the room in borrowed pants from Natasha and flats from Pepper. He realizes as he does so that his walk has nowhere near the attitude Natasha or Pepper can convey through an exit, but he does like the way his long hair swings with his gait. Maybe when this is over--IF it's ever over--he'll grow his hair long. He's done about all he can do with facial hair variants, short of going all Duck Dynasty, and that thought makes him shudder. Thor rocks the locks. It's a good look. 

Tony heads straight for his workshop. "Jarvis. Jameson Protocol."

"Initiated, sir."

He drinks and tosses up schematics with equal fervor. 

Bruce enters the workshop just as Jarvis is saying, with a hint of exasperation, "Sir, you must stand still if I am to get an accurate read of your measurements."

"Don't tell me you're working on a new suit at this juncture," Bruce says.

"Only if I can't find workable modifications."

Bruce picks up the whiskey bottle, eying the current level. "Are you sure you should be down here at all right now?"

"Jarvis, explain the Jameson Protocol to Dr. Banner."

"Very good, sir. This creates a series of incremental backups to any work conducted while Mr. Stark is in a state of inebriation. They are stored, along with any initial work and calibrations, on a secure server until such time that they can be properly evaluated."

"Tell Dr. Banner how many patents I've created while being completely shitfaced."

"To date that would be 337, sir. As well as 472 while in a less than complete state of shitfacedness."

"You think I should grow my hair long? As a guy, I mean. Assuming I'm going to be a guy again. Jesus, d'you think I'm going to be this way forever?"

"Tony. Stop."

He freezes. "Am I pissing you off?" 

"No," Bruce says firmly. At least Tony thinks it's just firmness, but it could be the first glimmer of anger. Banner's so low-key that this could be what getting angry looks like. Fuck, the last thing this day needs is a giant green rage monster when --

"Cut it out," Bruce continues. "Just stop thinking."

Tony heaves a sigh. "My brain doesn't have a kill switch. Actually, no, that's not true. It _had_ one, which was my dick. So apparently I'm back to my original thesis."

"So build one. You're an engineer, and I remember someone telling me there's not one more brilliant. Oh yeah--that was you."

Tony meets Bruce's gaze. He knows he's wearing that stupid helpless orphaned puppy expression, but he's powerless to do anything about it. "I can't," he says, and the sudden memory of his dad's reaction whenever he'd said that makes him flinch.

"That's what I thought," Bruce says quietly. "I can teach you."

"All due respect, but I don't think I've got time right now to check into a monastery somewhere."

"Let me try something." 

Tony recognizes that sudden rush of words that announces the dawning of an idea. "Sure." His accompanying shrug sets off a flare of pain in the injured rib.

"Okay. I--can I touch you?"

"What, Pepper announced to you all that I had a post-traumatic meltdown? Let's just have a press conference too."

"She told _me_. Though we are going to have to tell Fury before he gives you one of his famous bear hugs."

That teases a snort of laughter from Tony. "Is this some form of homeopathy? Introducing an even more horrifying traumatic thought? And yes, you can touch me. Pepper just blindsided me, that's all."

Bruce guides Tony to a comfortable chair. "Sit." At Tony's hiss of pain, he asks, "Something wrong?"

"I tried on the suit and I fell. You know that part that you sometimes smash on a bike seat or something and you think 'If I was a lady this wouldn't hurt at all'?"

Bruce gives him a bemused look. "I'm familiar with that part, yeah."

"Well, it's a total fucking misconception. It hurts like a mofo."

"Maybe that's because you're not actually a lady."

"Fucking hilarious. I thought there was supposed to be some kind of touching."

Bruce, who has moved behind the chair, touches him lightly on the shoulder. "Lean back. Relax."

He wouldn't say he's relaxed, actually, when Bruce begins combing his fingers through Tony's hair, but it happens a lot sooner than he would have believed. Bruce alternates between running his fingers through the shoulder-length strands and gently separating the tangles, and Tony thinks he might have found an even better reason to grow his hair to Thor lengths.

"We've just gotten started, you know," Bruce says as he works. "We'll find an answer."

"You have a very specific tell when you lie," Tony tells him. "You sound optimistic."

His reward is a full-out laugh from Bruce. These are becoming more and more common, but they're still a new enough phenomenon that Tony savors each and every one. Especially the ones that he induces.

"Thor's already gone to talk to Heimdahl." Bruce moves from finger-combing Tony's hair to gently massaging his scalp with the pads of his fingers, which causes Tony to emit a prolonged moan. 

" _Fuck_ , Banner, you've been holding out on me."

"Stop. Thinking." He rubs slow circles with his fingertips at Tony's temples. "Breathe in."

Tony matches his inward breath to Bruce's. "I should really--"

"Shh. Breathe out."

Bruce's thumbs find the points of tension at Tony's temporomandibular joint--the tension that always _always_ lives there--and begin to repeat the gentle circular motions he'd made at the temples. Tony closes his eyes, breathing in time with Bruce, and he'd swear that the lights of the workshop slowly dim. Before long his breathing is slow and deep without the crutch of Bruce's guidance. Faintly he becomes aware of his legs being lifted and settled onto an ottoman.

"I really should," he starts to say, but it's just a mush of vowels and consonants, even to his ears, and he's already lost the thread of what he meant to say. With one more sigh of exhalation, he's out.


End file.
